


Silver for Witches

by TheAtlas



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Rituals, Slight Homophobia Later On - Freeform, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAtlas/pseuds/TheAtlas
Summary: In fear of the Witch at the Swamps, Noiz's village decide to give him up as a sacrifice in order to keep the peace in the village. Little did he know that the actual witch is a man with blue hair, liquid golden eyes and malice-tainted lips.





	

 

Aoba was around eleven when he reached out into the flickers of the flames that his nanna was using to cook his broth. But before his fingers grasped at the versatile snakes that were creeping underneath the cauldron, nanna slapped his hand away. He looked up at her, and his brow furrowed. He only wanted to play with them – they were begging him to the entire time. When he told his nanna so, she got upset. Her face consorted into a sneer, just for a moment, and it vanished by the next blink of her dark eyelashes and returned to the blank, pensive look that he came to associate with her.

 

“Listen to me closely, Aoba. You will never attempt to touch the flames again.”

 

And Aoba did so and never questioned it, for his nanna always knew best. He didn’t want to get burned as she said.

 

*****

 

The flames lost its allure with the years, and he did not find it again, not until he was reunited the boy with the scarred face.

 

Koujaku has been his playmate at first, his friend the next, ever since he moved with his nanna into the new village. He was the kind of boy who never teased him about his unnatural hair, who never asked why Aoba could not stay after dawn, nor did he request to come over his nanna’s hut. So when Koujaku disappeared for fourteen full moons, Aoba despaired, and counted the phases till his only friend came back. At the end, he lost his count. Staying at the hut with nanny was hard, especially when she keeps telling him to run around and bring her jars.

 

It was not Koujaku who came back after that, though. It was a boy with half of his face and most of his back burned. A rough pattern of jaded, molted and clustered skin dominated his back and up to his shoulder, as well as covered the left side of his forehead and went all the way down to his cheek. Koujaku grew out his hair then, just like his, in order to cover his eye. Aoba did not mind, he found his friend’s new appearance really pretty. He told him so, too. But he did not see the scars properly – not in its full grandeur – till he asked his raven haired friend about it, three full moons after he came back.

 

They were in the back of the village, in the middle of the meadow and underneath ashen trees, when Koujaku asked: “Tis ugly, why would you want to see it?”

 

It was an innocent enough question; one Aoba did not know how to answer. Instead, he shrugged, and that seemed to be enough for Koujaku, at least coming from Aoba.

 

So his friend turned, and shed off his tunic first, then his shirt next. The cold air of the meadow made goosebumps rise on his skin, even more so when Aoba gently blew on them, and his friend hissed at him to stop. He softly caressed the skin at his disposal, marveling at its texture, at the feel of it underneath his palm.

 

It was beautiful.

 

He stated so to his friend, too. Koujaku turned then, and clasped his hand with his own. He completely misinterpreted the look in the younger man’s eyes, and smashed their lips together then. Aoba startled, but did not back away. Not when it made something flare up in him, when he sought out the heat that coiled itself in his veins. So he latched himself onto Koujaku’s lips even more, and lapped at the inside of his mouth. He wanted more of the burning warmth inside of him. His friend merely chuckled.

 

*****

  
 Aoba heard the legend of the witches of the swamps many times. They were ancient hideous creatures, their faces deformed by the vile acts they had performed in their years, the villagers said. They had no soul; it was burned the moment they gave up their humanity to become witches, to gain their powers.

 

“So what, they give up on being pretty and gain some magic tricks in return?” Aoba frowned, looking at the other teens of the new village he had just arrived to with his grandma. It was a poor one, with most of its inhabitants in drags and patched up cloths. It made Aoba’s washed out trousers seem immaculate. They were gathering woods for tonight’s festival, but some of the boys were talking about skipping to go witch-hunting.

 

“Witches don’t become that by a snap of their fingers, you idiot!” One of the girls explained, a pretty thing with blue eyes and sandy brown hair. “It’s in their blood. They were vile before they were even born.” The others agreed, muttering on how about proper, God-fearing creatures can never become like that. “But they say if you drink their blood, you can become immortal.” One of the witch-hunting enthusiast spoke seriously. His father was dying.

 

Aoba clicked his tongue in his mouth, and pondered; if someone was born cursed, would it matter if they had a cleansed or a dirtied soul anyway?

 

*****

 

“Aoba, don’t stay up late at the festival tonight.”

 

“Why?”

 

His nanna had always been secretive. It irritated Aoba to no end, at times, especially when she spurted nonsense as this. What would it matter if he arrived home a couple of minutes later? What is the meaning behind those aggravating curfews? Why do they never stay in one village for a prolonged amount of time? Why does it always feel like there was something curling in his stomach, waiting to be unfolded? Why does he see shapes in the flames, shapes he can never explain or make out?

 

She never answered any of them. All the answers were tucked safely behind her brow. Aoba felt she had the whole universe’s secret hold up behind her blank and pensive look. It was a look he grew to resent and hate at times like these.

 

Her silence was deafening. Aoba gritted his teeth, and left to the festival that night.

 

He came back on curfew though, just like she ordered him to.

 

*****

 

His skin was burning up. It created an uncomfortable itch, one he kept clawing at, but it never went away. It was maddening him to no end. So he rejected Misuki’s offer to go hunting with him in favor for a dip in the water.“In the middle of auntumn? You’re a strange one, Seragaki” Misuki said, laughing off his rejection yet again. But Aoba caught the disappointed pout that formed itself on the brown haired man’s face for a moment – he was always good at catching off handed reactions – and felt regret pool in his chest.

 

Misuki was a good friend, the best he had ever had since he parted ways with Koujaku. But these things – these _signs_ – were a shame he could not share. He would never know other people’s reaction if they found out, so he simply couldn't afford them finding out.

 

He submerged himself into the water, and groaned when the cool liquid lapped at his skin. He swam back and forth the river, not getting enough of it. The chilled water was a balm to his inflamed skin. The wind blew, and goosebumps trailed on the uncovered flesh of his hands when he stood up. But he welcomed it, welcomed the soothing that the cold breeze brought on, even if he knew the itch would come back, even greater than before, in a day or so.

 

*****

 

The crisps of the bonfire lighted up the meadow more than the stars ever could. The stench of ale, blueberries and goat milk carried out through the moist air and on his breath. He tasted it on his lips, while whispers of latin caressed his skin. He remembered his grandmother and her lullabies, and his stomach churned with the reality of what he has done. He had abandoned her. But it was far too late now.

 

With a determined set of the jaw, he allowed himself to be twirled again, his dancing partner as faceless as the hoard watching him. His vision was filled with nothing but lush green and soft white dotted on deemed blue. The white ceremonial robes he wore flowed around him, blue hair teasing the small of his naked back. Soft, unmarred skin glistened underneath the glow of the flickers of flames, and he fluttered.

 

He was beautiful. He knew that by the way the sparks rose higher each time he teased himself closer. They were waiting for him. And he was so weak to their charms; like a white flower, to which he was the stem, he awaited nature to sting him, to devour him. His heart thrummed, pumping white hot warmth in his veins, and he burned from the heat within him. His partner steadied him with a cold hand to the heated skin of his face. They were the only ones near the flames.

 

Burning crisps licked at the bottom of his white dress and he was twirled again, inching himself closer. A grin laced his lips, and he threw his head back, cyan hair seducing the flickers of the fire into a dance. He felt arms sneak behind his back and in return, he opened his, engulfing the static of the air, willing the tension to seep itself into him. He was the center of the universe; all the other dancers willed themselves in his orbit. To him, they were nothing but leeches, the lot of them. But he was not about to share his cup. He would forge the black goat’s book open tonight, and will zealously guard its content. The heavens shall weep for his loss, and tears of blood will pour down, flourishing white flowers.

 

Beads of sweat formed itself on his forehead as his partner removed his hands. With nothing supporting his back, his muscles were straining. It was not the moment of no return, he has already crossed it a long time ago – but rather, it was the moment of his climax. With one last look at the heavens, he let go, falling into the pyre. Engulfed by the flames, his skin was unscathed. His soul was the only thing burning. He screamed.

 

With a yellow toothed grin, the cronies croaked. “Welcome, Aoba”.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was solely inspired by the Witcher 3's OST "The Vagabond" and "Silver for Monsters" (it is strongly recommended to listen to the latter while reading the fic!). Also, I totally used the concept of the cornies and ran away with the idea.
> 
> Oh and this work still unbeta'd, so I would totally adore feedbacks about errors or typos you may found in the text! I'd strongly adore all feedbacks whatsoever, but yeah!


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